Course, I didn't know what Old Hickory was stackin' me up against when he calls me into the private office and tells me to shake hands with this Mr. McCrea. Kind of a short, stubby party he is, with a grayish mustache and sort of sleepy gray eyes. He's one of these slow motioned, quiet talking ginks, with restful ways, such as would fit easy into a swivel chair and hold down a third vice-president's job for life. Or he might be a champion chess player.
So when the boss goes on to say how Mr. McCrea is connected with the Washington sleuth bureau I expect I must have gawped at him a bit curious. Some relic of the old office force, was my guess; a hold-over from the times when the S. S. people called it a big day if they could locate a lead nickel fact'ry in Mulberry Street, or drop on a few Chink laundrymen bein' run in from Canada in crates. Maybe he was a thumb-print expert.
"Howdy," says I, glancin' up at the clock to see if the prospects was good for makin' the 5:17 out to Harbor Hills.
"I am told you know the town rather well," suggests McCrea, sort of mild and apologetic.
"Me!" says I. "Oh, I can usually find my way back to Broadway even in foggy weather."
He indulges in a flickery little smile. "I also understand," he goes on, "that you have shown yourself to be somewhat quick witted in emergencies."
"I must have a good press agent, then," says I, glancin' accusin' at Mr. Ellins.
But Old Hickory shakes his head. "I suspect that was my friend, Major Wellby," says he.
"Oh!" says I. "The one I rescued the wire spools for? A lucky break, that was."
"Mr. McCrea is working on something rather more important," goes on Old Hickory, "and if you can help him in any way I trust you will do it."
"Sure," says I. "What's the grand little idea?"
He don't seem enthusiastic about openin' up, McCrea, and I don't know as I blame him much. After he's fished a note book out of his inside pocket he stops and looks me over sort of doubtful. "Perhaps I had better say at the start," says he, "that some of our best men have been on this job for several weeks."
"Nursin' it along, eh?" says I.
That brings a smothered chuckle from Old Hickory. But Mr. McCrea don't seem so tickled over it. In fact, he develops a furrow between the eyes and his next remark ain't quite so soothin'.
"No doubt if they could have had the assistance of your rapid fire mentality a little sooner," says he, "it would have been but a matter of a few hours."
"There's no telling," says I. "Are you one of the new squad?"
Here Old Hickory chokes down another gurgle and breaks in hasty with: "Mr. McCrea, Torchy, is assistant chief of the bureau, you know."
"Gosh!" says I, under my breath. "My mistake, sir. And I expect I'd better back out now, while the backin's good."
"Wouldn't that be rather hard on us?" asks McCrea, liftin' his eyebrows sarcastic. "Besides, think how disappointed the major will be if we fail to make use of such remarkable ability as he has assured us you possess."
It's a kid, all right, even if he does put it so smooth. And by the twinkle in Old Hickory's eye I can see he's enjoyin' it just as much as McCrea. Nothing partial about the boss. His sympathies are always with the good performer. And rather than let this top-liner sleuth put it over me so easy I takes a chance on shootin' a little more bull.
"Oh, if you're goin' to feel bad over it," says I, "course I got to help you out. Now what part of Manhattan is it that's got your super-Sherlocks guessin' so hard?"
He smiles condescendin' and unfolds a neat little diagram showin' a Broadway corner and part of the cross street. "It is a matter of three policemen and a barber shop," says he. "Here, in the basement of this hotel on the corner, is the barber shop."
"Yes, I remember," says I. "Otto something or other runs it. And on the side, I expect, he does plain and fancy spyin', eh?"
"We should be much interested to have you furnish proof of that," says McCrea. "What we suspect, however, is something slightly different. We believe that the place is rather a clearing house for spy information. News seems to reach there and to leave there. What we wish to know is, how."
"Had anyone on the inside?" I asks.
"Yes, that bright little idea occurred to us," says McCrea. "One of our men has been operating a chair there for three weeks. He discovered nothing of importance. Also we have had the place watched from the outside, to no purpose. So you see how crude our methods must have been."
"Oh, I ain't knockin' 'em," says I. "Maybe they was out of luck. But what about the three cops?"
"Their beats terminate at this corner," says McCrea, "one from uptown, one from downtown, and the third from the east. And we have good reason to suppose that one of the three is crooked. Now if you can tell us which one, and how information can come and go----"
"I get you," I breaks in. "All you want of me is the answer to a lot of questions you've been all the fall workin' up. That's some he-sized order, ain't it?"
McCrea shrugs his shoulder. "As I mentioned, I think," says he, "it was Major Wellby who suggested your assistance; and as the major happens to enjoy the confidence of--well, someone who is a person of considerable importance in Washington----"
"Uh-huh!" says I. "It's a case of my bein' wished on you and you standin' by with the laugh when I fall down. Oh, very well! I'll be the goat. But the major's a good scout, just the same, and I don't mean to throw him without making a stab. How long do I get on this?"
"Oh, as long as you like," says McCrea.
"Thanks," says I. "Where do I find you when I want to turn in a report, blank or otherwise?"
He gives me the name of his hotel and after collectin' the diagram of the mystery I does a slow exit to my desk in the next office. I was sittin' there half an hour later with my hair rumpled, makin' a noise like deep thinkin', when in walks the hand of fate steppin' heavy on his heels, as usual.
Not that I suspected at the time this Barry Wales could be anything much more than a good natured pest. He didn't used to be even that. No, the change in Barry is only another little item in the score we got against the Kaiser; for back in the days before we went into the war Barry was just one of Mr. Robert's club friends who dropped around casual to date up for an after-luncheon game of billiards, or tip him off to a new cabaret act that was worth engagin' a table next to the gold ropes. Besides, holdin' quite a block of Corrugated stock, I expect Barry figured it as a day's work when he got me to show him the last semi-annual report and figure out what his dividends would tot up to. Outside of that he was a bar-hound and more or less of a window ornament.
But the war sure had made a mess of Barry. I don't mean that he went over and got shell shocked or gassed. Too far past thirty for that, and he had too many things the matter with him. Oh, I had all the details direct; bad heart, plumbing out of whack, nerves frazzled from too many all-night sessions. He was in that shape to begin with. But he didn't start braggin' about it until so many of his bunch got to makin' themselves useful in different ways. Mr. Robert, for instance, gettin' sent out in command of a coast patrol boat; others breakin' into Red Cross work, ship buildin' and so on. Barry claims he tried 'em all and was turned down.
But is he discouraged? Not Barry. If they won't put him in uniform, with cute little dew-dads on his shoulder, or let him wear $28 puttees that will take a mahogany finish, there's nothing to prevent him from turnin' loose that mighty intellect of his and inventin' new ways to win the war. So when he's sittin' there in his favorite window at the club, starin' absent minded out on Fifth Avenue with a tall glass at his elbow, he ain't half the slacker he looks to the people on top of the green buses.
Not accordin' to Barry. Ten to one he's just developin' a new idea. Maybe it's only a design for a thrift stamp poster, but it might be a scheme for inducin' the Swiss to send their navy down the Rhine. But whatever it is, as soon as Barry gets it halfway thought out, he has to trot around and tell about it.
So when I glance up and see this tall, well tailored party standin' at my elbow, and notice the eager, excited look in his pale blue eyes, I know about what to expect.
"Well, what is it this time, Barry?" says I. "Have you doped out an explosive pretzel, or are you goin' to turn milliner and release some woman for war work?"
"Oh, I say, Torchy!" he protests. "No chaffing, now. I'm in dead earnest, you know. Of course, being all shot to pieces physically, I can't go to the front, where I'd give my neck to be. Why, with this leaky heart valve of mine I couldn't even----"
"Yes, yes," I broke in. "We've been over all that. Not that I'd mind hearing it again, but just now I'm more or less busy."
"Are you, though?" says Barry. "Isn't that perfectly ripping! Something important, I suppose?"
"Might be if I could pull it off," says I, "but as it stands----"
"That's it!" says Barry. "I was hoping I'd find you starting something new. That's why I came."
"Eh?" says I.
"I'm volunteering--under you," says he. "I'll be anything you say; top sergeant, corporal, or just plain private. Anything so I can help. See! I am yours to command, Lieutenant Torchy," and he does a Boy Scout salute.
"Sorry," says I, "but I don't see how I could use you just now. The fact is, I can't even say what I'm working on."
"Oh, perfectly bully!" says Barry. "You needn't tell me a word, or drop a hint. Just give me my orders, lieutenant, and let me carry on."
Well, instead of shooin' him off I'd only got him stickin' tighter'n a wad of gum to a typewriter's wrist watch, and after trying to do some more heavy thinkin' with him watchin' admirin' from where I'd planted him in a corner, I gives it up.
"All right," says I. "Think you could stand another manicure today?"
Barry glances at his polished nails doubtful but allows he could if it's in the line of duty.
"It is," says I. "I'm goin' to sacrifice some of my red hair on the altar of human freedom. Come along."
So, all unsuspectin' where he was goin', I leads him down into Otto's barber shop. And I must say, as a raid in force, it was more or less of a fizzle. The scissors artist who revises my pink-plus locks is a gray-haired old gink who'd never been nearer Berlin than First Avenue. Two of the other barbers looked like Greeks, and even Otto had clipped the ends of his Prussian lip whisker. Nobody in the place made a noise like a spy, and the only satisfaction I got was in lettin' Barry pay the checks.
"I got to go somewhere and think," says I.
"How about a nice quiet dinner at the club?" says Barry.
"That don't listen so bad," says I.
And it wasn't, either. Barry insists on spreadin' himself with the orderin', and don't even complain about havin' to chase out to the bar to take his drinks, on account of my being in uniform.
"Makes me feel as if I were doing my bit, you know," says he.
"Talk about noble sacrifices!" says I. "Why, you'll be qualifyin' for a D. S. O. if you keep on, Barry."
And along about the baba au rhum period I did get my fingers on the tall feathers of an idea. Nothing much, but so long as Barry was anxious to be used, I thought I saw a way.
"Suppose anybody around the club could dig up a screwdriver for you?" I asks.
Inside of two minutes Barry had everybody in sight on the jump, from the bus boy to the steward, and in with the demi tasse came the screwdriver.
"Now what, lieutenant?" demands Barry.
"S-s-s-h!" says I, mysterious. "We got to drill around until midnight."
"Why not at the Follies, then?" suggests Barry.
"Swell thought!" says I.
And for this brand of active service I couldn't have picked a better man than Barry. From our box seats he points out the cute little squab with the big eyes, third from the end, and even gets one of the soloists singin' a patriotic chorus at us. On the strength of which Barry makes two more trips down to the café. Not that he gets primed enough so you'd notice it. Nothing like that. Only he grows more enthusiastic over the idea of being useful in the great cause.
"Remember, lieutenant," says he as we drifts out with the midnight push, "I'm under orders. Eh?"
"Sure thing," says I. "You're about to get 'em, too. Did you ever do such a thing as steal a barber's pole?"
Barry couldn't remember that he ever had.
"Well," says I, "that's what you're goin' to do now."
"Which one?" asks Barry.
"Otto's," says I. "From the joint where we were just before dinner."
"Right, lieutenant," says Barry, givin' his salute.
"And listen," says I. "You're dead set on havin' that particular pole. Understand? You want it bad. And after you get it you ain't goin' to let anybody get it away from you, no matter what happens, until I give the word. That's your cue."
"Trust me, lieutenant," says Barry, straightenin' up. "I shall stand by the pole."
Sounds simple, don't it? But that's the way all us great minds work, along lines like that. And the foolisher we look at the start the deeper we're apt to be divin' after the plot of the piece. Don't miss that. What's a bent hairpin in the mud to you? While to us--boy, page old Doc Watson.
How many times, for instance, do you suppose you've walked past the Hotel Northumberland? Yet did you ever notice that the barber shop entrance was exactly twenty paces east on Umpteenth Street from the corner of Broadway; that you go down three iron steps to a landin' before you turn for the other 15; or that the barber pole has a gilt top with blue stars in it, and is swung out on a single bracket with two screws on each side? I points out all this to Barry as we strolls down from the theater district.
"By jove!" says Barry. "Wonderful!"
"Ain't it?" says I. "And all done without a change of wig or a jab of the needle. Now your part is easy. You simply drift down the side street, step into the shadow where the cab stand juts out, and when nobody's passin' you work the screws loose. Me, I got to drop into the writin' room and dash something off. Here we are. Go to it."
Course, he could have bugged things. Might have dropped the screwdriver through a grating, or got himself caught in the act. But Barry has surrounded the idea nicely. He couldn't have done better if he'd been sent out to a listenin' post. And when I strolls out again five minutes later there he stands with the pole tucked careful under one arm.
"Fine work!" says I. "But we don't want to hide it altogether. Carry it careless like, with your overcoat unbuttoned, so both ends will show. That's the cheese!"
It ain't one of these big, vulgar barber poles, you know; not over four feet long and about as many inches thick. But it's a brilliant one, and with Barry in evenin' dress he's bound to be some conspicuous luggin' it. Yet I starts him straight up Broadway, me trailin' 25 or 30 feet behind.
If it had been further up town he might have collected quite a mob of followers, but down here there's only a few passing at that time of night. Most of 'em only turns to look after him and smile. One or two gives him the merry hail and asks where the Class of 1910 is holdin' the banquet.
He'd done nearly five blocks before a flatfoot steps out of a doorway and waves a nightstick at him.
"Hey, whaddye mean, pullin' that hick stuff?" demands the cop.
"Sir!" says Barry, wavin' him off dignified.
Then I mixes in. "It's perfectly all right, officer," says I. "I know him."
"Oh, do you?" says the cop. "Well, some of you army guys know a lot; and then again some of you don't. But you can't get away with any such cut-up motions on my beat."
"But listen," I begins, "I can explain how----"
"Ah, feed it to the sergeant," says he. "Come along, you," and he takes Barry by the arm.
Being a quiet night in the precinct the desk sergeant had plenty of time to listen. He'd just decided against Barry, too, when I sprung my scrap of paper on him. It's a receipt in full for one barber's pole, signed by Otto Krumpheimer. I knew it was O. K. because I'd signed it myself.
"How about that?" asks the sergeant of the cop.
And all the flatty can do is gaze at it and scratch his head.
"No case," says the sergeant. "Beat it, you."
Then I nudges Barry. He speaks up prompt, too. "I want my little barber pole," says he.
"Ah, take it along," says the sergeant, disgusted.
"Sorry, officer," says I, as we drifts out, and I slips him a five casual.
"Enjoy yourselves, boys," says he. "But pick out another beat."
Which we done. This time we starts from the Northumberland and walks east. Barry had got almost to Madison Avenue before another eagle-eyed copper holds him up. He does it more or less rough, too.
"Drop that, now!" says he.
"Certainly not," says Barry, lyin' enthusiastic. "It's my pole."
"Is it, then?" says the cop. "Maybe you can show the sergeant yet? And maybe I don't know where you pinched it. Walk along, now."
You should have seen the desk sergeant grow purple in the gills when we shows up in front of the rail the second time. "Say, what do you sports think you're doin', anyway?" he demands.
"I'll make a charge of petty larceny and disorderly conduct," says the cop, layin' the evidence on the desk.
"Will you, Myers?" says the sergeant sarcastic. "Didn't ask him if he had a receipt, I suppose? Show it to him, lieutenant."
I grins and hands over the paper.
"Hah!" grunts Myers. "But Otto Krumpheimer don't sign his name like that. Never."
"How do you know?" says I.
"Why," says Myers, scrapin' his foot nervous, "I--I just know, that's all. I've seen his writin', plenty times."
"Hear that, sergeant," says I. "Just jot that down, will you?"
"Night court," says the sergeant.
"Never mind, Barry," says I. "Line of duty. And I'll be on hand by the time your case is called."
"Right-o!" says Barry cheerful.
Myers, he was ambitious to lug us both along, but the sergeant couldn't see it that way. So while Barry's bein' walked off to police court, I jumps into a taxi and heads for McCrea's hotel. If he'd been in bed I meant to rout him out. But he wasn't. I finds him in his room havin' a confab with two other plain clothes gents. He seems surprised to see me so quick.
"Well?" says he. "Giving up so soon?"
"Me?" says I. "Hardly! I've got the crooked cop."
McCrea gives a gasp. "You--you have?" says he.
"Yep!" says I. "But he's got my assistant. Can you pull a badge or anything on the judge at the night court?"
Mr. McCrea thought he could. And he sure worked the charm, for after whisperin' a few words across the bench it's all fixed up. Barry gets the nod that he's free to go.
"May I take my little barber pole?" demands Barry.
"No, no!" speaks up Myers. "Don't let him have it, Judge."
"Silence!" roars the Justice. Then, turnin' to a court officer he says: "Take this policeman to Headquarters for investigation. Yes, Mr. Wales, you may have your pole, but I should advise you to carry it home in a cab."
"Thank you kindly, sir," says Barry. But after he gets outside he asks pleadin': "Don't I get arrested any more?"
I shakes my head. "It's all over for tonight, Barry," says I. "Objective attained, and if you don't mind I'll take charge of this war loot. Drop you at your club, shall we?"
So I still had the striped pole when we rolled up at McCrea's hotel. I was shiftin' it around in the taxi, wonderin' where I'd better dump it, when I made the big discovery.
"Say," I whispers husky to McCrea, "there's something funny about this."
"The pole?" says he.
"Uh-huh!" says I. "It's hollow. There's a little trap door in one side."
"Hah!" says McCrea. "Bring it up."
And you'd think by the way him and his friends proceeded to hog the thing, that it was their find. After I'd shown 'em where to press the secret spring they crowded around and blocked off my view. All I got was a glimpse of some papers that they dug out of the inside somewhere. And some excited they are as they paws 'em over.
"In the same old code," says McCrea.
But finally he leads me to one side. "Myers is the man, all right," says he.
"Course he is," says I. "If he wasn't why would he be so wise as to whose pole it was, or about Otto's handwritin'?"
"Ah!" says McCrea, noddin' enthusiastic. "So that was your system in having your friend arrested? You tried out the officers. Very clever! But how you came to suspect that the barber's pole was being used as a mail box I don't understand."
"No," says I, "you wouldn't. That's where the deep stuff comes in."
McCrea takes that with a smile. "Lieutenant," says he, "I shall be pleased to report to Major Wellby that his estimate of you was quite correct. And allow me to say that I believe you have done for the Government a great service tonight; though how you managed it so neatly I'll be hanged if I see. And--er--I think that will be all." With which he urges me polite towards the door.
But it wasn't all. Not quite. I hear there's something on the way to me from the chief himself, and Old Hickory has been chucklin' around for three days. Also I've had a hunch that one boss barber and one New York cop have done the vanishing act. Anyway, when I was down to the Northumberland yesterday for a shave there was no Otto in sight, and the barber pole was still missin'. That's about all the information that's come my way.
Barry Wales don't know even that much. But when he comes in to report for further orders, as he does frequent now, he has his chest out and his chin up.
"I say, lieutenant," he remarks confidential this last trip, "we put something over, didn't we?"
"I expect we did," says I.
"But what was it all about, eh?" he whispers.
"Why," says I, "you got pinched twice without losin' your amateur standin', and one of the stripes opened in the middle. When they tell me the rest I'll pass it on to you."
"By George! Will you, though?" says Barry, and after executin' another Boy Scout salute he goes off perfectly satisfied.
